


ama me fideliter

by flaneuse



Category: The Borgias (2011)
Genre: M/M, but i never trust fics without tags, no tags necessary tbh, so here are ur tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 18:23:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2398328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flaneuse/pseuds/flaneuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Micheletto doesn't know what to do with the tenderness and beauty that Pascal offer.</p>
<p>This is actually a small part of a much longer fic I'm writing about Micheletto's life, but it can easily be read alone, so I decided to post it on its own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ama me fideliter

Micheletto never cared much for words until he met Pascal. He found he could communicate far better with a stare, or better yet, a knife. He had never learned to read or write. He'd never wanted to. What could be more poetic than feeling life slip out from under your fingers? How could letters on paper describe what a man's hard body felt like against his own? No, Micheletto had no use for language beyond what he needed to communicate the bare essentials. So when he met Pascal, saw Pascal's ardor for art and literature, he did not understand.

_I love, and I hate. Why, you ask? I don't know, but it happens, and I burn._

Until those words.

Micheletto knew those words. He knew love, and hate, though the latter was a far more familiar friend. _I burn._ He felt it every day when he woke up—the cruelty that the world inflicted on him, the cruelty he inflicted on its inhabitants in turn. But love—love seemed crueler still. Worse than torture, worse than death. And Micheletto never knew the way to express that sweetbitter pain until Pascal. He understood then, when Pascal told him that writing was the language of love. There were things that sounded foreign and strange when spoken aloud, but when made physical in text were of the most perfect clarity, even for one who could not read, like Micheletto. Besides, he always had Pascal to read aloud for him.

Micheletto was laid on his stomach, watching Pascal scribble away at the small table. Pascal smiled as if he could feel Micheletto's gaze upon him.

"Are you feeling neglected, my dear Micheletto?" He asked, still writing. _Dear._ Micheletto had no time for such extravagances and affection in his speech, but it pleased him to hear it from Pascal's mouth, which was more suited to sweetness than his.

Micheletto did not answer.

"Perhaps, then, I should use your flesh as my parchment, so that you may be involved in my work."

Micheletto grunted, making no real reply, but Pascal could read him just as well as his books, and he sensed Micheletto's intrigue. Pascal stood, and he was wearing naught but a loose white shirt, collar open, and breeches soft with wear. He stepped silently, feet bare, and shed his shirt along the way, kneeling next to Micheletto, who was still on his stomach. When Micheletto made to move, Pascal stopped him with a gentle hand on his shoulder blade.

"Micheletto," he breathed, trailing his palm down the ridge of Micheletto's spine. Micheletto had never known a touch so peaceful, and it was harder to bear than all the hard touches combined. 

"Your scars," Pascal said, and Micheletto waited for a comment on the ugliness, the condolences that he had been treated so, but it never came. Instead, Pascal's fingers, calloused by overuse of a pen rather than hard work, traced the marred skin reverently. 

"They are like latticework, or the finest silver filigree. Catallus would be weeping to know there was better crafted poetry than his own in the world."

"Pretty words," Micheletto said.

"There are many pretty things about me," Pascal replied. Micheletto could hear the smugness in his voice. "My words…my hair…my hands." He said, sweeping them down Micheletto's sides in a way that made him shiver. "My mouth," he whispered, and pressed his lips to the hard curve of Micheletto's neck and shoulder. 

Micheletto close his eyes and exhaled. Pascal's touch calmed him in a way that he was frightened of. None of his lovers had ever been so fearless with him. Augustino had been scared of him since he killed his father all those years ago, and he often sought out men he could purposefully intimidate into silence when he needed to satisfy his lust. But Pascal saw Micheletto as a tamed lion, large and beautiful and dangerous, but also with the ignorant naivety that those claws and teeth would never be turned on him. It was a relief for Micheletto, and was part of the reason he couldn't stay away.

"Tell me, Micheletto," Pascal said, voice lilting. "Do you know what a butterfly kiss is?"

"A butterfly kiss?" Micheletto asked. "Can such creatures kiss as we do? It sounds foolish." He said, indulging Pascal. He indulged so little in his own life, but it satisfied him to do so with Pascal.

"They cannot," Pascal acknowledged. "They are too fragile to kiss as we do—certainly as you do. But occasionally the human body can mimic the delicacy of a butterfly. Even yours."

"Not even your lips are so light," Micheletto disagreed.

"No," Pascal acquiesced. "But I do not intend to kiss you with my lips."

There was a silence, and Micheletto felt the drag of Pascal's nose and then the softest touch, almost nonexistent, sweep like a feather down a small stretch of skin. Micheletto was unable to keep himself from shifting, muscles in his back tightening reflexively. 

"Ah," Pascal said, "so even your hard body can feel the touch of a butterfly."

"What was that?" Micheletto asked, arching unconsciously toward Pascal.

"Shh," Pascal whispered. "Let me take care of you, my dear Micheletto. I have the feeling you have been rarely taken care of."

There was little Micheletto could say to that. 

Pascal resumed his ministrations, pressing his lips and occasionally his teeth to Micheletto's back, following it with a brush of his eyelashes—impossibly long and impossibly soft. Pascal did not skirt around the ruined skin, the evidence of Micheletto's sins and pleasures. Instead he paid it special attention, and soon Micheletto felt that every nerve ending was near to burst out of his body. Pascal was gentle but unceasing, and Micheletto was embarrassed by the hardness of his cock and the way his fingers dug into the sheets underneath him.

Micheletto closed his eyes, because if he could not watch Pascal, there was no point in looking at all. He schooled himself to remain as still as possible, to not rut into the mattress below him, but it was difficult. Pascal made his way down Micheletto's spine, kissing each vertebrae as he found them. He reached the base, where his back curved concave in a sloping arc, and finally kissed the cleft at the top of Micheletto's buttocks, and Micheletto shivered. 

"Have you bathed today?" Pascal asked offhandedly.

"You know I have," Micheletto grunted in reply, his head now resting on his folded forearms, feigning disinterest in what Pascal was about to do. "You won't let me touch you unless I am clean."

"With good reason," Pascal said, his voice dancing with laughter. "Especially for what I am about to do."

And before Micheletto could even think of asking, Pascal licked a broad stripe up the middle of Micheletto's behind. Micheletto couldn't stop himself from gasping as he gave a full-body shudder. 

"Pascal," he started to say.

"Hm," Pascal murmured, kneading the muscles of Micheletto's arse. "Did you not like that?" He sounded unbearably smug.

Micheletto's only response was to cant his hips so that he presented more of himself to Pascal's warm, wet mouth.

"Now, Micheletto," Pascal said, slipping his hands around Micheletto's thighs, which were thick and corded with hard muscle. "I need more than that." And he yanked, catching Micheletto by surprise so that Micheletto was on his knees, prone in a position that looked almost like a perverse prayer. Micheletto almost took the Lord's name as Pascal's tongue pressed itself against Micheletto's tight hole, not breaching, just gently making slow, sensual movements. Micheletto groaned and he braced himself up on his hands so that he could arch better into Pascal's mouth.

"Why, my Micheletto," he remarked in between kisses and sucks. "One might think you'd want me inside of you."

"I would." Micheletto said, voice hoarse, but unashamed. "Why should I deny myself your mouth, when it has clearly been made for more than words? Why would I not have you take me, as I take you nightly, and daily, and you seem to enjoy it." He could feel Pascal hesitate, and he knew he had surprised him.

"I shall take you," Pascal said. "But only with my mouth. I yearn for you tonight, Micheletto. I yearn for your taste, and I yearn for the feeling of you inside me, filling me up until I feel I shall tear myself free from my own chest." And with that, Pascal applied himself again to Micheletto's hole, dragging his teeth against the untouched skin, pressing his tongue flat against the muscle, and then, finally, slipping inside, and Micheletto threw back his head and moaned.

"Never have I had such a thing done to me," Micheletto managed to say, and his body felt taut, all sensation narrowed to his clenching hole.

Pascal raised his head for a moment, resting his cheek against Micheletto, and again, Micheletto could feel the barest brush of his eyelashes against his skin. "I told you, did I not, that I spent some time in the company of da Vinci and his boys. They were much concerned with the study of the beauty of the human body. I learned much, though my trade was letters rather than painting."

"Pascal," Micheletto said, voice rough.

"Hm?" Pascal replied absentmindedly.

"You have a talent for speech, I grant you, but I'd rather you put your mouth to other use right now." He said, body begging for pleasure. Pascal had to release him soon, or else he would spend himself without ever touching Pascal, and that was unacceptable.

"As you wish," Pascal said, and applied himself diligently to Micheletto's pleasure. 

Michletto was on all fours, and his cock was no longer trapped between his pelvis and the mattress, and therefore no longer award the slight relief of pressure. Now he was painfully hard and leaking, but Pascal would not touch him, would only press himself deeper and deeper inside of Micheletto. Micheletto thought he could very well come from this alone, but he didn't want to. So it was with regret that he pulled away and said Pascal's name again.

"If you will not take me then I must take you," Micheletto said, desperate, and he flipped over, pulling Pascal on top of him, moving to kiss him deeply, but Pascal turned his head.

"Let me take a drink of water," Pascal said. "I would not kiss you so soon after what I did."

Micheletto shook his head. "I don't care," he said roughly, and kissed Pascal hard, and the two struggled to stay together as Pascal slipped out of his breeches. He was just as hard as Micheletto, Micheletto was pleased to note, and their bodies pressed against each other, bringing delicious friction, eased somewhat with the sweat and precome that gathered between them.

Micheletto's hands slid down Pascal's back with the intention of preparing him, but Pascal shook his head. 

"No need," he said slyly. "I am ready for you, as I always am."

And he kissed Micheletto once more before lifting himself up and lowering himself slowly onto Micheletto's cock. Pascal braced himself with palms flat on Micheletto's chest and Micheletto snapped up immediately into Pascal's heat. He was ready, so ready for this and it seemed that Pascal felt the same because he began to ride Micheletto immediately, setting a furious pace.

Pascal's head was thrown back and Micheletto could see the sharp line of this throat. He dug his fingers into Pascal's hips and urged him harder, faster. Pascal was loud, moaning, and for once Micheletto was as well, though he bit his lip to try and stifle his grunts. Micheletto felt sparks fly through him as Pascal's nails drew blood in patterns of neat little half moons on his chest, and he pressed up deeper and deeper.

"Micheletto," Pascal groaned. "Please."

Micheletto blessed the straining muscles of his abdomen and he heaved himself up, clutching at Pascal so that Pascal was now seated in his lap. Pascal wrapped his arms around Micheletto's neck and gazed at him in such obvious adoration that Micheletto was overcome, and he ducked his head into the crook of Pascal's neck.

Pascal was riding him slower now, hands wound tangled in Micheletto's hair, pulling him closer and closer and Micheletto clutched him tighter and tighter. Micheletto shut his eyes and he knew that his eyelashes were brushing against Pascal's skin in the butterfly's kiss that he'd mocked Pascal for earlier. It was that phantom touch that seemed to set Pascal off, for he clenched hard around Micheletto's cock and came between them, hot and thick, but he kept riding Micheletto, and Micheletto took pleasure in the pained gasps that Pascal let out—his body so oversensitive that pleasure itself hurt.

Micheletto felt Pascal kiss his brow, and that was it for him, and he groaned long and low, coming inside Pascal with an intimacy that felt familiar and safe. He thrust upward slowly once, twice, pressing himself as deep as he could go before finally relaxing and letting himself fall back against the mattress, Pascal collapsing none too gently on top of him.

_I love, and I hate_. But Micheletto didn't feel that for once. _I love, and I love, and I love, and I burn._ They were not the right words but they felt right to Micheletto, for he could not understand how someone like Pascal could come into his life, how he could have deserved someone so beautiful and kind. But it wasn't to last, he knew. It couldn't, because those like Micheletto who made their living in death did not deserve unbounded happiness. So he would love, now, and live to regret it later. He always did.

He could feel Pascal's breath against his chest, but whatever he was saying was too quiet for Micheletto to hear.

"Hm?" He asked.

" _Ama me fideliter, Fidem meam toto, Decorde totaliter, Et ex mente tota, Sum presentialiter, Absens in remota."_ Pascal repeated.

"And what does that mean?" Micheletto asked. His arm was around Pascal, holding him snugly against his body.

"It is too sentimental for me to translate," Pascal said, pressing a kiss to Micheletto's chest. "But maybe I will teach it to you someday."

Micheletto grunted. He would have to be content with that, though he wasn't sure if that someday would ever come.

_Love me faithfully. See how I am faithful. With all my heart and all my soul I am with  
you, even though I am far away._


End file.
